The third time that I saw him, I had left many years in my wake. Time turned my hair to silver and weathered my face. Life had given me things, and had taken them away; making me acquainted with both happiness, and regret.

Still, I wouldn’t have changed a single thing; because most of all, I had lived. Adventure had been my path, and I had walked it with my head held high; drinking in the sights of the world till my heart was satisfied, and my soul fulfilled.

Eventually, the road had led me back home again, and as ever Summer was sweltering. Evening was falling and people took to the streets, dressed in colour and anticipation. Voices carried in through open windows, and with that came the whispers of the legend.

In the years that I’d been away the old stories had grown faint and thin, like butter scraped across too much bread, but it was still there, echoing with the last notes of a song.

As I looked outside I saw myself in the tiny bodies running through the streets, eyes full of innocence and hope, and simultaneously reflected in the uneasy silhouettes of those caught between childhood fantasies and adult contemplation – and I knew what I had to do.

Once a dreamer had stepped up to give other dreamers something to believe in. He had given it a name and a meaning, carefully crafting a beautiful tale that still found the hearts of those that needed it today.

For it to keep existing and touch people – like that man had touched me – someone needed to keep the legend alive.

So I did.

The third time that I saw him, I smiled in the mirror before tapping the brim of my straw hat – and walked into the August night.